


The Soho Attraction

by whopackedthese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Scene, Drug Use, Gen, Paternal Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, suggested drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopackedthese/pseuds/whopackedthese
Summary: How was the man who had been prevalent in his life since the day of his birth not storming forwards, fists raised, and beating ten shades of the crimson liquor in his veins out of his nose? Greg gave Sherlock's arm a tug, 'Get in the car, you gobby little shit.'





	

Greg's temper was loose and free; the weather for a murder in the middle of Soho was less than acceptable as the black night sky peed heavily down on him and his team. Mid-winter in London bred germs quicker than a chemical warfare lab, and Greg was desperate to be at home with a tumbler of warmed whiskey and a box of Beecham's Cold and Flu tablets. But he was well aware that he had a job to do, and that he rarely got what he wanted in this life. Still, his fever and the weather, and his insatiable need to confront Sherlock won out in the end. 

'What the hell is wrong with you?' 

The shove that Greg gave the younger man in the chest was rough - too rough, on reflection - but he had been starving his anger toward him for well over an hour and Sherlock's yelled _'what the fuck, Donovan'_ not two minutes ago had been the last straw for the DI. His use of a profanity in the middle of a crime scene occupied by civilians - and his entire demeanour - had made it impossible for Greg to contain his irritability with Sherlock any longer. 

'An hour and a half on _my_ case and I want to kick you off; that has to be a record...' He paused, as he stood face to face with Sherlock and was able to clearly read the problem in the pale sweaty face before him; in the shaking hands; in the blown pupils and the tongue that swiped mercilessly across dry and cracked lips. How he hadn't noticed it before he wasn't sure, and he kicked himself for letting Sherlock anywhere near this case. If he could see it then so could everybody else. 'You fucking _idiot_ , Sherlock.' Greg shoved his hand hard into the centre of Sherlock's chest a second time. 

Sherlock's fast-moving blue eyes watched Greg stumble his Blackberry from his coat pocket and begin to dial. 'Telling on me?' he spat, tongue sharp and bitter. 

Greg fixed him with a glare as he held the phone to his ear, 'You don't leave me with any other option, Sherlock...' he growled at the boy. 'It's me - how fast can you have a car to Greek Street?' Greg's deep voice rumbled into the handset, and he startled slightly at he manic way in which Sherlock yelled ' _Traitor!_ ', and set wild eyes upon the DI, only strengthening his belief that he'd made his worst mistake in weeks in calling the young man. 'Yeah,' Greg said down the phone, his hand back out and firm against Sherlock's chest as the lad went to move, '...that's him.' 

'Yes, it's _me_ ,' Sherlock mocked and sniffed, then rubbed the back of his right wrist across his nose. 

Greg firmed up his expression and kept his brown eyes boring into Sherlock's steeled blue stare. 'Minimal damage this far,' he spoke into the phone. 'I can't promise it'll remain as _benign_ \- or that I won't twist his bollocks off if he doesn't shut up.' 

Sherlock bellowed a loud, over-exaggerated laugh. 'Promises, promises.' 

'Left or right end?' Greg asked, looking to both sides of himself and feeling almost embarrassed to see Donovan glaring back at him as he turned his head to the left. '...great, I'll drag him there.' He cut the call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Finally having both hands free again, he moved his hand from Sherlock's chest and quickly captured his right arm and twisted it roughly behind Sherlock's thin frame. 'One of two things is going to happen now, Kid. You're going to cooperate with me and walk to the end of the road and then you're going to get into the car with Mycroft and you're going to go home, withdraw for a painfully long time and come back to me when you're sober with your tail between your legs looking for something to occupy your mind...' 

Sherlock winced at the sharp pull to his shoulder and gritted his teeth before spilling the squeal he wanted to make over into a creepy, intoxicated laugh, 'What's behind door number two?' 

'Jail, Sherlock,' Greg said, low and biting into the younger man's ear. So close to Sherlock all at once, Greg was able to smell sweat and spirits mixed with the stale smell of cigarettes off the hair that curled around his ear, and the upturned collar on his coat. He twisted Sherlock's arm agonisingly tighter in against his mid-back, subduing him further. 'Make your choice or I make it for you.' Sherlock's knees weakened at the strength behind Greg's grip and he buckled, barely escaping tumbling to the floor before he recaptured his footing. He swallowed hard, making his Adam's apple bob, and heaved angry breaths through his flaring nostrils. His lips pulled into an anger-induced smile and spat his brother's name reluctantly from his tongue. 'Good boy,' Greg provoked him. Immediately the force of Greg's hold weakened and instead he cupped his hand tightly around Sherlock's thin bicep, able to feel taught, vibrating muscle even beneath the thick fabric of his heavy coat. 'Walk with me and I won't dislocate your shoulder...' he warned, urging Sherlock to take determined steps by pushing into his arm. 

 

As had been promised on the phone, Mycroft's car was waiting at the end of the road when Greg had managed to awkwardly amble the high, long-legged young man to the corner. The door to the passenger's side back seat opened and, after a moment, Mycroft stepped out into the rain and immediately raised his umbrella. He didn't offer shelter from the teaming rain to the Detective Inspector, nor his brother, and simply stared at the two of them as they halted before him. 'Back on the sauce, brother dear?' 

Sherlock looked up and swallowed languidly, blinking the raindrops from his long eyelashes in an even slower movement, 'Fuck you.' 

Mycroft withheld any response he may have had and Greg wondered how; his anger was boiling and he had known Sherlock for less than eighteen months. How was the man who had been prevalent in his life since the day of his birth not storming forwards, fists raised, and beating ten shades of the crimson liquor in his veins out of his nose? Greg gave Sherlock's arm a tug, 'Get in the car, you gobby little shit.' 

'Or else I go to jail?' Sherlock provoked his captor's anger without a single thought for the repercussions. 

Mycroft jaw stiffened and Greg saw the flash in his eyes, even in the darkness, 'Or else you go to the OAD.' Neither Greg nor Mycroft missed the immediate sobering of Sherlock's features at the mention of the drug rehabilitation clinic he had been subjected to treatment at on numerous occasions. 'Get into the car, Sherlock,' Mycroft warned stiffly. With another shove from Greg, Sherlock fumbled his legs into movement and walked toward the car. Only as he bent to climb into the car did Greg release his hold on Sherlock's arm, and he wondered silently if he would leave the cadaverous young man with pepper bruising that would be questioned should the clinic have to actually come into play. 

Mycroft watched Greg pull back as Sherlock slipped into the seat and scurried himself into a small ball in the far corner of the back seat. 'I'm sorry,' Greg apologised weakly, his heart bouncing too much blood into his ears. 'I don't know why I didn't notice sooner.' 

'Sherlock lies, it's what he does most successfully,' Mycroft reasoned but his tone was sharp and nowhere close to something soothing or forgiving, something Greg was seeking. There was no subtextual 'it's not your fault'. 

'Call me when he's come down?' Greg asked, pushing his freezing hands into the pockets of his useless coat. 

Bringing down his umbrella, and reaching for the car door, Mycroft gave one curt nod in the DI's direction. 'I always do.'


End file.
